*

The men in the office are still laughing at the joke about stilettos when the sound of a tentative throat clearing reaches the desk from the door. The club’s manager beckons the cleaner in without looking at her. The cleaner apologizes to them all, but most of the men ignore her, even if one of them helpfully lifts his feet when the woman reaches to empty the wastepaper bin. The cleaner thanks him, but no one notices. It doesn’t bother her; Fatima’s greatest talent is not disturbing anyone. She waits until she’s in the hallway before clutching her back and emitting a short groan of pain. She doesn’t want anyone to see and tell Amat. Her beloved boy always worries too much.

*

Sweat is stinging Amat’s eyes as he glides to a halt by the boards down on the rink. His stick is resting on the ice, the moisture in his gloves makes his fingers slip a bit, his breath catches in his throat as lactic acid fills his thighs. The stands are empty but he keeps glancing up at them every now and then. His mom always says they must be grateful, the pair of them, and he understands her. No one is more grateful than her, toward this country, this town, these people, and this club, toward the council, their neighbors, her employer. Grateful, grateful, grateful. That’s the role of mothers. But the role of children is to dream. So her son dreams that his mother will one day be able to walk into a room without having to apologize.

He blinks the sweat from his eyes, adjusts his helmet, and pushes his skates into the ice. One more time. One more time. One more time.

*

Peter has now missed four calls from the club’s president, and glances anxiously at the time as Kira enters the kitchen. With a smile she looks at the sticky disaster on the countertop and floor, and knows that Peter must be screaming hysterically inside. They have different ideas about cleanliness: Kira doesn’t like clothes on the floor, but Peter really loathes anything sticky and messy. When they first met his entire apartment looked like he’d been burgled, apart from the kitchen and bathroom, which looked like operating rooms. Kira’s apartment was the exact opposite. It would be safe to say they weren’t an obvious match.

“There you are! I’m late for my meeting at the rink. Have you seen the keys to the Volvo?” he splutters.

He’s tried to put on a jacket and tie, with mixed results, as usual. Kira’s outfit is impeccable, as if the fabric were in thrall to her body. She’s drinking coffee and pulling her coat on in the same fluid, one-handed gesture.

“Yep.”

He stands there red-faced, his hair on end, his socks smeared with smoothie, and asks: “Do you feel like telling me where they are?”

“They’re in my pocket.”

“What? Why?”

Kira kisses his forehead.

“That’s a very good question, sweetie. I suppose I thought they’d come in handy if I was going to drive the Volvo to work. Seeing as it might be thought a little inappropriate if my clients’ lawyer turned up in a hot-wired car.”

Peter scratches at his hair with both hands.

“But . . . what the . . . You can take the other car, can’t you?”

“No, because you’re taking the other car to the garage. After you’ve dropped the kids off at school. We talked about it.”

“We haven’t talked about it.”

Instinctively, Peter wipes the bottom of her coffee cup with a piece of paper towel. She smiles.

“Darling, it’s written on the calendar on the fridge.”

“But you can’t just put things on there without talking to me.”

She carefully raises one of her eyebrows.

“We did talk. We’re talking now. We do nothing but talk. Listening, on the other hand . . .”

“Please, Kira, I’ve got a meeting! If I’m late . . .”

“Absolutely, darling. Absolutely. If I get to work late an innocent person might end up in prison. Sorry, I interrupted you. Tell me more about what happens if you’re late?”

He breathes through his nose, as calmly as he can. “It’s the biggest game of the year tomorrow, darling.”

“I know, darling. And tomorrow I’ll pretend that it’s important. But until then you’ll have to make do with the rest of the town thinking it is.”

She’s hard to impress. That’s simultaneously what he finds most attractive and most irritating about her. He tries to find a stronger argument, but Kira just lets out a theatrical sigh, puts the keys to the Volvo on the table, and clenches her fist in front of her husband.

“Okay. Rock-paper-scissors, then.”

Peter shakes his head and tries to stop himself from laughing.

“What are you? Eight years old?”

Kira raises an eyebrow again.

“What are you? A coward?”

Peter’s smile vanishes in an instant as he fixes his eyes on her and clenches his own fist. Kira counts to three out loud, Peter does paper, Kira very blatantly waits half a second longer and then quickly forms her fingers into scissors. Peter yells at her, but by then she’s already snatched up the keys and is heading for the door.

“But you cheated!”

“Don’t be a sore loser, darling. Bye, kids, be nice to Dad. Or at least reasonably nice.”

Peter stands where he is in the kitchen, shouting:

“Don’t you dare leave! Cheat!”

He turns to look at the calendar on the fridge.

“There’s not even anything on here about taking the car . . .”

The front door closes behind Kira. The Volvo starts up outside. Ana is standing in the kitchen, grinning, with a thick smoothie-moustache on her upper lip.

“Have you ever got the better of her at anything, Peter?”

Peter massages his scalp.

“Would you mind fetching my son and daughter and telling them to put their clothes on and get in the car?”

Ana nods eagerly.

“Sure! I just need to clean up in here first!”

Peter shakes his head imploringly and takes out a fresh roll of paper towels.

“No . . . no, Ana . . . please don’t. I can’t help thinking that would only make things worse.”

*

Once the laughter in the office has subsided, one of the sponsors looks grimly at the club’s president, taps his knuckles on his desk and asks: “So? Is there going to be any problem with Peter?”

The president mops his brow, shakes his head. “Peter does what’s best for the club. Always. You know that.”

The sponsor stands up, buttons his jacket, and empties his cup.

“Well, then. I’ve got another meeting to go to, but I trust you’ll explain things to him. Remind him where the money for his wages comes from. We all know how he feels about Sune, but we can’t allow any leaks to the media about internal conflict here.”

The club’s president doesn’t have to answer. No one knows more about the thickness of the walls than Peter. He’ll put the club first. Even today, when he’s going to be ordered to eject Sune from it.

5

Why does anyone care about hockey?

*

Perhaps that depends on who you are. And where.